


Church

by misscai



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Past Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misscai/pseuds/misscai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>f!sole jess and deacon make some confessions to one another and to themselves</p>
            </blockquote>





	Church

Jess cornered him in a church. Deacon couldn't help but find it a little ironic, given his code name, that he was now stuck between a pew and a shelf holding burned hymn books. There was a splatter of blood across her cheekbone, but now wasn't the time to think about that—not when those gray-green eyes were so intensely focused on his face. He waited, and waited some more, but she didn't speak. Then, in a flash, she snagged his glasses off of his face.

“Blue,” she said simply, a quick smile dashing across her lips. “Huh. I would've guessed brown.”

“What?”

“Your eyes. They're blue.”

“Damn. Secret's out.” His sigh was exaggerated and entirely fake, but Jess's pleased demeanor shifted immediately and she returned his sunglasses without another word. She was already walking away by the time he replaced them on the bridge of his nose.

.

“Will your hair ever grow back?” Deacon glanced at Jess, who was examining a strand of her own ash-blonde hair as they walked through Lexington. He subconsciously rubbed a hand over his scalp, then down the back of his neck.

“It does. I keep it shaved. Easier to blend in that way. Plus, fewer fleas.”

“What color is it?”

“Why?” When she didn't answer, he kicked a pebble at her ankle. “I know your code name is 'Whisper' and all, but being quiet doesn't count as an answer.”

“Just curious,” she said, and then she veered off the road to explore an apartment complex.

.

Deacon knelt at Jess's side, keeping a firm pressure on the shotgun shell wound that had punctured her calf. She insisted that it wasn't bad enough to waste a stimpak on—a clean shot, she determined, straight through the skin without bothering any bone. Still, he'd be damned if he didn't do something to mute the pain.

“You'll attract bloodbugs soon enough,” he joked. “And you've ruined my favorite shirt.”

“The moonshine,” Jess instructed without amusement. “In my bag.” Deacon retrieved the bottle, knocking aside a broken camera and some fuses... and an inhaler of Ultra Jet. He frowned, holding the chem up for Jess to see.

“What's this?”

“For Hancock. Now can I have the 'shine? My leg hurts.” She was lying, and he knew she was lying, but he let it go for the sake of the bullet wound.

.

 

Neither of them mentioned it for another week, but the strange events were constantly on Deacon's mind. Jess wasn't like this. She was impulsive, sure, and a little reckless, and probably shouldn't be trusted around fires or whiskey, but she wasn't this... jittery. Every rustle of leaves had her flinching; his dust-induced sneezes made her tense. Deliverer shook in her hands.

They were camped out in the back room of a clothing store. Jess sat by the oil lamp, her boots off and her fingers massaging the arches of her bare feet. Deacon's knee nudged into her side as he sat down, and the contact made her jump.

“Enough's enough, Whisper,” he decided, turning to face her more fully with his eyebrows drawn down into a frown. “What's going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You're an awful liar, and you know it. And you know I know you better than that.”

“You don't,” Jess said, suddenly angry. “You don't know anything about me, and you don't care. As long as I'm keeping the Railroad a secret and saving synths, you don't care.” Deacon's ire rose to match hers, his eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.

“Bullshit. If I didn't care, why would I spend all my time digging through trashed buildings and carrying all your junk?”

“Because you vouched for me to Desdemona, and now you're my babysitter.” She folded her arms over her chest—whether in an offensive or defensive position, he couldn't tell. “Do you regret it, Dee? Taking me under your wing? Getting yourself stuck with me?”

“Right now I do,” he said without thinking, and Jess's arms fell to her sides. She stood up and limped out of the room, her boots and bag abandoned by the lamp.

Instantly Deacon felt his heart kick up a notch, panic and guilt taking over. He'd done it again. Damn him and his big mouth. What the hell was it about this little Vault-dweller that snapped his control so quickly? If he wasn't careful, he'd drive her away like every other friend he'd ever had; he'd lose her like he'd lost Barbara.

She was up on the roof when he found her, a cigarette perched between her shaking fingers and her toes tapping against the dirty brick. Blood dripped down her leg from the untended wound. Her spine stiffened when she heard him coming, but she didn't try to leave; instead, she took a long drag and held the smoke as long as she could before blowing it out in a cough. Deacon suppressed a smile—she'd done the same thing the first time she'd tried a cigarette with MacCready. Seems she hadn't gotten any better.

“Whisper, you know we've gotta talk about this,” he said, standing in front of her.

“Don't call me that,” she snapped softly, a tinge of panic in her voice. Deacon paused for a moment, calculating his next move. Barbara hadn't been like this. She was always level-headed, more likely to be the one comforting him than needing comfort herself. But there were times when she was exhausted and stressed, a bottle of warm beer grasped loosely in her hand, and Deacon would slip an arm around her waist, take the drink away, and lead her straight to their bed. Jess had that same bone-deep tired look in her eyes. So he reached out—slowly, so he didn't startle her—and eased the cigarette out of her hand before putting it out beneath his boot.

“Jess,” he said, finding that he liked the taste of her name in his mouth, “we should get back inside, okay? Even a rookie sniper could drop us from up here.” She looked for a moment like she wanted to argue, but instead she bowed her head and leaned her weight on Deacon's proffered arm, and they cautiously headed back down to their campsite.

.

They didn't talk about it that night. Deacon heated up a can of pork and beans, but when he turned to give Jess her portion, she'd fallen asleep. He rolled his eyes, but set aside dinner to nudge a balled-up shirt under her head to serve as a pillow. Stupid, stubborn Vault-dweller. She'd be the death of him.

As Deacon ate, he couldn't help but feel a bit nostalgic. He had shared plenty of nights by the fireside with Barbara. She was the best cook he'd ever seen, always knowing how to burn radstag meat just enough to give it a smoky flavor without being too dry. They mixed whiskey with their Nuka Colas—Barbara was always partial to the cherry flavored ones, while Deacon was more traditional—and had a few snack cakes for dessert. Then they would just talk, talk for hours on end, until Barbara had fallen asleep on his thigh and Deacon's arm was sore from constantly running his fingers through her hair.

Jess didn't look like Barbara, not in the least. Barbara was dark: tan skin, black hair, deep brown eyes and a morbid sense of humor that Deacon thoroughly loved. She liked dark clothes and dark makeup, and when she slept she sprawled out and took up as much space as possible. That was the thing about Barbara. She was never one to be inconspicuous. But Jess was. Even now, she was curled as tightly as possible, her arms wrapped around her midsection and her knees touching her elbows. Everywhere Barbara was dark, Jess was light. Light hair, light eyes, light skin, and a lighter heart than he'd ever seen survive in the wasteland. She was playful and funny, too young to live outside of a vault. That was where she belonged, somewhere clean and healthy like Vault 81, perhaps teaching or tending to a garden. He was sure that's what she did in the vault she came from.

He was somewhat surprised that she hadn't revealed anything about her past. Usually he could charm people into talking within ten minutes of a conversation, but he and Jess had been traveling together for quite some time and she'd been silent on the subject. Sure, he knew little things: she has three older sisters, she sneezes around mutated ferns, she hates wearing shoes... but those things hardly mattered. He needed to know more. Specifically more about the way she'd been acting.

Briefly he thought he should wake her up. If it was something serious, he needed to know. They could fix a chem addiction pretty quickly; she always had a syringe of Addictol in her pack, just in case. He'd seen her sick from too many rads, but this wasn't that—that was a lot of wooziness and fever, not jitters and mood swings. Maybe it was 'her time with the painters'. That's what Barbara had called it, but Deacon hadn't seen any signs of 'painters'. And he would know, because he was never away from Jess for more than a few minutes while they were on the road. So... could it be the opposite of 'painters'? Could she be pregnant? No, not possible. The only man she'd been alone with was him, and they hadn't done anything. He should just wake her up and ask her.

But as Deacon put his hand on her shoulder, preparing to shake, Jess shifted and let out this little sigh and Deacon jerked his hand away like he'd been shocked. It almost felt like he had been shocked, the way his heart was stuttering against his ribs.

Fuck it. He'd ask tomorrow.

.

The whole day was a struggle. They walked on the main road, completely out in the open in a way that Jess and Deacon both detested. She was even more jumpy than usual, staring intensely at every nuked-up car they passed until she was satisfied that no ghouls or raiders would jump out from behind them. Her wounded leg could hardly bear weight, but she flinched away from him when he tried to offer help. Finally, _finally_ , they made it to Sunshine Tidings—Jess had established it as 'home base' for her companions.

“Honey, I'm home!” Deacon called to Cait, who was plucking mutfruit from the bushes in the garden. She flicked him off, which normally made Jess laugh. This time she was silent. Curie emerged from the corn stalks and caught sight of the bloodied fabric staunching the gunshot in Jess's calf.

“Oh, madame! You are injured!” She rushed over and looped her arm around Jess's waist, murmuring in soothing French as she led the blonde woman into the central building. Deacon let out a deep sigh, rolling his shoulders to release tension before he followed Curie and Jess.

The little French synth was kneeling in front of Jess, who was perched on the edge of a table with her bloodied jeans on the floor. Deacon had the presence of mind to blush, after taking a long look at her bared thighs. She didn't even seem to notice his blatant admiration.

“Will she live, doctor?” Deacon inquired of Curie, who actually managed to frown at him—he'd never seen her mouth bend downwards like that.

“She should have been treated immediately, Monsieur Deacon. Surely you had a stimpak with you? I think the wound may be infected already.”

“You mean the moonshine and dirty rags weren't sanitary? And it _was_ necessary to use a stimpak?” His voice was dripping sarcasm, trying to elicit a reaction from Jess.

“But of cour—oh, you are making a joke. Regardless, Monsieur, you must endeavor to take greater care with Madame. The Commonwealth needs her.” Already Curie had cleaned and stitched up the hole in Jess's leg, and was now covering her work with freshly-washed strips of fabric. When she'd finished, she patted Jess's knee and smiled up at the blonde woman. “Madame is a hero.”

“Can I go?” Jess asked abruptly, and didn't wait around for an answer before rushing out of the building with a slight limp. Both Curie and Deacon watched after her with concern.

“Have you noticed a change in Madame during your travels, Monsieur Deacon? She seems...”

“Flighty?”

“Scared,” Curie decided in a quiet voice. “She seems scared.”

.

MacCready and Cait goaded Deacon into a shooting contest before he could find Jess and demand to know what was going on. By the time they'd destroyed every bottle they could get their hands on, the sun was dipping low in the sky and campfires were rapidly becoming the brightest source of light around the settlement. Most of the settlement residents had taken their places by the cooking fire, passing around yao guai ribs and grilled corn. Deacon took a seat beside Nick, who offered up a Nuka Cola.

“Hey, where's Blue?” Piper asked of the crowd, looking around for their fearless leader.

“She's been hanging around with that ghoul,” Danse said with a scowl and a shake of his head. “She should keep better company, as a representative of the Brotherhood.” Everyone chose to ignore him, but Deacon couldn't help asking where they went. Danse made a motion towards the shack that was too wrecked to salvage.

Typically Jess used that place as a storage platform for broken bits of furniture or junk she found in the wasteland but didn't want to destroy for whatever reason—Deacon never understood her hoarding habit. As he peeked in through the window, he saw Jess and Hancock sprawled out across two halves of different couches, their feet propped up against a smashed television. Hancock tapped his fingers lazily on a typewriter, snickering every now and then when he spelled out a dirty word. Smoke curled around their heads, empty canisters of Jet littering the floor around them.

“What the hell, Hancock?” Deacon demanded, shoving his way past the mess into the building. Two black eyes and two gray-green ones focused hazily on him; Hancock tipped the brim of his tricorn.

“Evening, Deacon. Come to join the party?” He grinned at Jess, who smiled around her cigarette. “We're having a hell of a time.”

“She doesn't smoke,” Deacon said with a pointed glare in Jess's direction.

“I can make my own decisions,” Jess replied on an exhale. “You're not my boss.”

“I'm your partner.” He sounded a little whiny, but desperation did that sometimes. “I'm your partner and I care about you, and you aren't acting like you anymore. And I have to know what's going on.” Hancock looked between the two of them, then patted Jess's knee and stood.

“You ought to talk to him, sunshine. He'll be a pain in your ass until you do. And it's best to talk about feelings when you're doped up.” With that wise advice, Hancock made his exit, leaving Deacon to take the ghoul's spot on the couch.

.

Neither of them wanted to speak first, that much was clear. Jess finished the cigarette she was working on, then took another breath of Ultra Jet before starting in on another smoke. Deacon sighed and retrieved a cigarette for himself, taking his time with the lighter and settling back against the cushions until they got up the nerve to speak.

“Are you a synth?” It wasn't at all the question he was expecting, and his knee-jerk reaction was, of course, to lie.

“Yup. Institute class of 2199. Almost made the big 2200, but I got released early for good behavior.” Maybe he thought she'd laugh, or smack him for being an idiot. Barbara probably would have. Jess... Jess just made this little hiccuping noise and burst into tears, her hands shaking so badly that her cigarette tumbled out from between her fingers. Alarmed, Deacon dropped his cigarette and crushed them both under his boot before gathering Jess in an awkward hug. He didn't know how to do this. He wasn't a 'console via physical touch' kind of guy, he was a 'make them laugh until they forget they were crying' kind of guy. But that wasn't what Jess needed, so he sort of patted her back and pushed her forehead against his shoulder, thinking that maybe somewhere he'd seen a mother do that to a crying kid, so maybe it would work.

“I d-don't—I don't kno-o-ow,” Jess was sobbing into his shirtsleeve.

“You don't know what?” He tried to be gentle, despite his overwhelming curiosity. Jess's muscles stiffened in an effort to stop her trembling, and she took deep yet gasping breaths to halt her tears. Deacon slackened his hold in case she pulled away, but she leaned further into his collarbone like it was the only thing that could support her.

“I don't know anything,” she whispered. “About this world, about what I'm supposed to do in it.” Her fingers twitched against his waist—when exactly they got there, Deacon couldn't remember—and curled into the pockets of his jeans, anchoring her to him. “I don't even know you, not really. Any of you. I hardly know _me_ anymore.” A choked, panicky laugh tore out of her throat. “I was just me, and now I'm an agent for the Railroad and a Knight for the Brotherhood and a General for the Minutemen...” She lifted her head, her cheeks splotchy and wet. Deacon kind of wanted to touch them. “Who am I, Dee?”

“I don't know,” he confessed with a half-smile. “You never told me.” She did laugh at that, just a little, and Deacon took it as a victory.

“Do you want to know?” When he nodded, she told him everything.

She told him that her real name was Jessamine Buchanan, the youngest daughter in her family and constantly trying not to be herself. For a while she was Sam, tomboyish and rambunctious just to annoy her mother. Then she was Mina, perfectly manicured at all times and the fantasy for all the boys in her school. She was the witty and mysterious Jay when the Weyland family moved in down the street, and she met Nate Weyland when she was eighteen. On the night of her twentieth birthday, she and Nate eloped; the next morning, Nate shipped out for war.

When he returned nearly a year later, Nate walked out of the airport gates with a baby in his arms—not his, and certainly not hers, but now it was theirs. The father had been killed in the war; the mother, badly wounded by stray bullets but not yet dead when Nate came across her, begged the American soldier to save her infant son. Save her little Shaun. So Nate did, and now Shaun was his and Jess's responsibility.

She told him how Nate wasn't the same after he got home from the war, how he fell into depression while she was pushed into motherhood. She read to Shaun about the alphabet and read to Nate about the benefits of post-war therapy sessions. Finally Nate agreed to go, and things started to get better. Nate could sleep in their bed rather than on the couch. Jess could leave Shaun alone with him and not worry about either of them. They were planning Halloween costumes when the bomb dropped and the family was displaced to Vault 111.

“It was... like a dream,” Jess said, and Deacon was hanging wide-eyed onto her every word. “They put us in these decontamination pods, and then they froze us. Cryogenic freezing. I woke up once, in the middle, and saw... I saw them take Shaun. And I watched them kill Nate.” She swallowed hard past the sudden dryness of her throat. “Then I went back under, and when I woke up for real, everything was... dead. I left the vault and went back home.”

“Sanctuary,” Deacon murmured, remembering the ruined house that Jess refused to enter.

“Codsworth was outside, trimming the burned-up sticks of my rose bushes. I thought it had been days, maybe a week, a month at most. And then Codsworth... he said I was gone for two hundred and ten years.”

“Holy hell.” She huffed out a laugh at that, nodding slowly.

“And now, here I am. Smoking cigarettes in a post-nuclear wasteland with blue-eyed, non-synth Railroad agent Deacon.” He chuckled, rubbing his palms on his knees and clearing his throat.

“Well. I guess fair's fair, right?” Mentally he planned out how to start this confession. Did he begin with the marriage and spousal loss part, or the violent and intolerant hate-gang part? Decisions, decisions.

“You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to,” Jess offered quietly. “I know you like your privacy. It's not fair for me to ask that of you.”

“No, you should know.” It was true, but still he couldn't believe that he trusted her enough to know all the sordid details of his past. Did he trust her that much? The answer came quickly and like a punch to the gut: of-fucking-course he did. They were partners, friends, companions, drinking buddies and now apparently smoking buddies. And even though Jess was not at all like Barbara—his wild and beautiful Barbara—he sometimes got that little twist in his stomach that he'd only ever gotten with his late wife, and that had to mean something.

So he told her everything.

.

Late that night, Deacon stared up at the ceiling of the shack he shared with MacCready, still in shock from the way Jess had responded to his life story. He'd expected a polite sort of disgust, a grimace hidden behind a pitying gaze. Instead she had reached out to him, just slightly, just enough to curl her index finger around his thumb. 'You're a good man, Deacon,' she'd said with a smile that was small and genuine. 'Your past doesn't change that.' Barbara had said the same thing.

Jess wasn't Barbara. She was young and scared and had no idea of her place in this new world. She cringed at the taste of beer and still got bruises from forgetting about the recoil of a big gun. She traded useful items for worthless junk, and was careless with her safety while exploring the Commonwealth ruins. If Deacon had loved Barbara, and Barbara was nothing like Jess, how could he even consider the possibility that he was falling in love with Jess? It made no sense. He didn't understand. He flipped to face the wall, then turned the other way, and then he buried his face in his pillow. It smelled like dirt and campfire smoke. Like Barbara's hair after she'd been working on their little farm. Like Jess's hair would probably smell, if he caught her while she was tending her mutfruit bushes.

That was a commonality between the women: they both liked plants. And now that Deacon's mind was on the similarities, he began to see a lot of them. They scavenged soap whenever they could find it. They hated killing wild mongrels and they liked the calm, amiable nature of brahmin. They were kind to strangers and had no qualms with ghouls or synths. They were brave and protective and loyal to the core. And somehow Deacon had managed to know them both.

Barbara would have liked Jess. She would have invited her in for dinner and offered to braid her hair to keep it from getting so dirty in the wasteland. They probably would have shared a bottle of wine and spent all night gossiping and trading stories while Deacon was reduced to little more than an observer, occasionally offering witty quips or sarcastic remarks which would gain him a few giggles from the women.

He let himself think, for a moment, about what Barbara would say if he told her he was maybe falling in love with Jess. Then he practically heard her voice teasing him: 'You brahmin-brain. I want you to be happy.' And that was that. Deacon loved Barbara and always would, but she was gone, and he couldn't bring her back. She would want him to find his happiness with someone else, not spend his life lonely.

Jess wasn't Barbara. Jess was Jess. And Deacon loved her.

.

It was like everything had changed overnight. Jess looked better by miles when Deacon saw her at breakfast the next morning. She shot him a shy smile and offered a plate of razorgrain oatmeal and diced mutfruit. Deacon didn't know if it was wishful thinking or reality that she was sneaking glances at him while they ate—and was she blushing? Best not to think about that, he figured. Just play it cool.

“So.” His throat felt dry, and he suddenly had nothing else to say. Just 'so'. Very cool. But Jess seemed to understand that he was trying to talk to her, so she swallowed the bite she was working on and folded her hands on the table.

“So I was thinking we could head north today, maybe see the Abernathies.”

“Sure. Yeah, that's a good idea. You love their cat.”

“I don't like cats,” Jess said, but she was smiling, and he knew it was a lie. Before he could call her on it, their quiet breakfast was interrupted, as usual, by the rest of the group. Curie was anxious to go with Jess to monitor her wound, in case anything got worse. Jess gently let her down, but promised to let her redress the gunshot before she and Deacon departed. Once all that was finished and fresh gauze was circled around Jess's calf, they started north.

Deacon wanted to tell her about his revelation, but that wasn't really appropriate travel talk. Not to mention he didn't know exactly how she felt. She'd lost her adopted son and watched her husband die, and now she had to survive in a post-nuclear world. The last thing she needed was a love confession.

“I lied.”

“Hm?”

“I lied,” Jess repeated, “about where we're going.” Deacon blinked at her from behind his sunglasses, but then shrugged.

“Fine by me. That place smells like tatoes and dirty socks.”

“Is there a difference between those smells?”

“Not much.” He grinned, feeling brave enough to sling an arm around her shoulders. “So, where are we headed, oh fearless leader?”

“There's something I need to do.”

.

When they stopped at the threshold of her old home in Sanctuary, Deacon didn't quite know what to do. Did she need time alone to revisit her past? Did she want his company to face her ghosts? Should he just sort of disappear into the razorgrain field nearby? He glanced down at her to try and get a read on her face. She looked... almost peaceful. A little nervous, yes, and there was sadness, too, but Jess seemed fairly calm.

“Okay,” she said, more to herself than to him, and she took the final few steps to enter her house. Deacon followed.

It was strange to see the remnants of Jess's old life. There was a grocery list on the fridge and a calendar on the wall, still with important dates circled and notes written in the boxes. A broken holotape player rested beneath the window. Vases with long-dead flowers inside decorated the shelves; there was a folded military flag between them. Jess tucked the flag against her chest and walked down to the end of the hall. She entered the bedroom, but Deacon turned to the nursery instead.

The crib was broken, of course. Those spindly blue legs couldn't have held up to the blast. But the spaceship mobile was still somewhat intact, spinning slowly with the breeze that blew through the holes in the wall. Colored alphabet blocks littered the floor. There was a dirty rocking chair in the corner, with a dusty blanket draped over the back.

It wasn't a stretch for Deacon to imagine that this life could have been his. Barbara seated in the rocking chair, her dark hair wound up into a messy topknot while the baby they'd been trying for played with a teddy bear in her lap. That mongrel puppy Barbara wanted to adopt and train, gnawing a bone at their feet. And Deacon, in the middle of it all, grinning at the family he'd gained.

“Nate hated that chair,” Jess murmured, coming into the room and startling Deacon out of his daydream. “One of the back bars was always loose, no matter how many times he tried to fix it. And it squeaked if you rocked too hard.”

“Did you make the blanket?”

“Mm-hmm.” She stood beside him and touched the burnt edge of the blanket. “Shaun didn't sleep well unless someone was in the room with him. Nate needed all the sleep he could get, so I stayed awake and sewed.”

“You should take it back to the Co-Op.” When she looked surprised, Deacon offered up a crooked smile and shrugged. “It could cover up that awful blood-stained couch in your room.”

“Yeah,” Jess said absently, folding the blanket over one arm and shifting the other items in her arms; Deacon hadn't noticed them. “I'm ready to go, if you are.”

“After you.”

.

They didn't take the road back to the Co-Op. Jess led Deacon up a path at the back of the neighborhood, climbing the hill slowly. When they came to the rusted fence gate with charred skeletons leaning against the chain links, Deacon paused.

“Is this where I think it is?” Jess just nodded, and kept walking until Deacon touched her elbow. “Jess, hold on. You don't have to—”

“He's still in there,” she interrupted, not unkindly. “I want to say goodbye. I never did.” So they kept walking, until they were standing atop the vault platform as it lowered into the ground. “Did you get to say goodbye to your Barbara?”

“Not before she...” The word caught in his throat, even now. “After, though.”

“That's good.” When the vault lift came to a halt, Jess led Deacon to the cryo room without a word. There were two open pods; only one was empty. She stopped in front of Nate's still-frozen body. Deacon stayed a respectful few feet away, giving her some privacy as she set the flag, a photo, a silver watch, and a wedding ring on the ground in front of the pod before closing it and smashing the control panel. “You deserved better, Nate. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.” She pressed her hand against the pod, taking a moment to sniff back tears. “But I will save Shaun, and I'll tell him what a hero his dad was.” Jess took a deep breath and stepped back, fiddling with something between her fingers. “You always took care of me, even when you were at your lowest, and I love you for it. I'll never forget you. But...” she paused to set the object down with the rest of the things from the house. Deacon saw that it was another gold ring. Her ring, now sitting alongside Nate's. “You don't have to watch out for me anymore. You can be at peace.” Jess looked over her shoulder at Deacon, a blush on her cheeks.

“Jess?” He questioned, and she just smiled, turning a shade redder.

“This is Deacon. It's not his real name, it's his code name for the Railroad. He has blue eyes and he isn't a synth. He had a wife named Barbara who is up in heaven with you. And if it's okay with the two of you, I'd really like to be with him. He's... well. He's my partner.” She extended a hand out to him, just barely, like she was afraid he'd reject it. “If he wants to be.”

Deacon took off his sunglasses before he took her hand and laced their fingers together. Then he pulled her close and wrapped his free arm around her waist, lowering his head to her ear to whisper two words that he hadn't said in years: “William Church.”

“What?”

“My name. Real name. William Church.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, and was surprised to see tears glossing her eyes. Humor might stop them from spilling over. Deacon poked her forehead, giving her a playful and gentle smile. “It's a name, not an onion, Jess. Not supposed to make you cry.”

“Shut up, Dee.” They stayed a moment longer in the cryo room, while Deacon silently paid his respects to Nate. Then, with their fingers still entwined, Jess and Deacon headed back to the wasteland surface.

**Author's Note:**

> taking some liberties with deacon's real name... but hey, since it isn't given to us, why not play pretend a little?
> 
> (really it just matched the title okay guys)


End file.
